


of rage and regret

by searwrites (sears)



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Future Fic, M/M, Mild Gore, Romance, Tragedy, commander!jean, god!eren, not quite canon compliant, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-13
Updated: 2014-06-13
Packaged: 2018-02-04 11:11:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1777003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sears/pseuds/searwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>this is an old scrap from an anonymous request of “jean/eren in canon”, which i haven’t had the heart to throw away, so i figured i would post. this isn’t exactly canon compliant, but it’s not my usual modern au. its more of a sort-of-au where eren outlives them all, and is seen as a kind of fallen god. anything that is past ch53/54 that is an important plot device is left out of this, as i am not up to date on the manga.</p>
            </blockquote>





	of rage and regret

**Author's Note:**

> i am back to taking (some) requests -- searwrites.tumblr.com

_O’ hear a tale once told_  
 _Of the God of Rage and Regret_  
 _With His back made of stones and His face covered by cloth_  
 _He travels West in quiet dusk_  
 _The righteous abandon their post, and Our God leaves us to wallow in sin_  
 _O’ God of Rage and Regret; our prayers are unheard_  
 _For He has left us for the salt and sand, to live with nymphs in deep blue_  
 _Away from those who abandoned their faith in Him._  
 _Those who scorned him carry the scars on their bodies_  
 _Forsake Him and submit beneath His steps_  
 _For Our God has never felt love_

 

\--

 

There are kennels better sanitized than this ward. Strips of stained gauze and bodily sludge lies in slopped rows, as if those on their beds had opened themselves up and discarded whatever illness lay in their bellies. The frames of the cots are crawling with rust and their bed clothes stained the color of sick; a compliment to the withering jaundice of the wounded's faces.

Despite all this, Jean's heart manages to lift the moment he steps into the corner; the cot with chains affixed to the concrete wall behind them, the cot containing the only thing Jean thinks he isn't quite ready to lose.

"You look like hell," he says, sitting and wincing as the cot sighs beneath his weight.

Eren's eyes are shut, dark bruises staining beneath his eyes, and his smile is thin. "You'd think I would be used to this by now."

Jean frowns, thankful that Eren can't see it. There is a pattern, now that all of the other shifters have been banished. A pattern of slowly and quietly allowing the deterioration of Eren's human body. It's almost as though if he perishes himself, no one will need to feel any guilt; he will have served his purpose as a tool-- a weapon.

"No one expects that of you," Jean says. "You aren't built to withstand--"

A woman interrupts him, one of the night orderlies, the ones that don't tend to his wounds.

"He needs his rest, Commander," she says in a soft voice, her head tipped down to the floor, as she quietly adjusts whatever rubber tubes they use to ease his pain. Probably enough pain killers to sedate a horse-- they always treat him like he's still the size of his shift, like he can handle whatever poison they thread through his veins.

"I think I can take it from here," Jean replies, dipping his head to catch her gaze. The hard edge in his tone is pointed like the sharpened tip of a blade.

"Yes, Commander, Sir," she mutters, and scurries away.

"Such a charmer," Eren croaks, his voice thin and hoarse, like smoke. "Always were a hit with the ladies."

The force of his wounded yet boyish smile makes Jean's chest feel like it's made of brick, with the mortar still wet. And there are a million and one things he could say; _you would know, wouldn't you?_ or _perhaps I should make my resignation from women more public, yes?_

Instead, he slides his hand beneath Eren's on the dirty sheets, curls his fingers so the stroking of Eren's palm is discrete enough to go unnoticed by others.

Jean only knows his smile has slipped because he sees its reflection on Eren's face.

"I hate the way they treat you," he says, quiet enough that only Eren will hear. "Is it wrong of me to occasionally feel the undying need to tell them all to fuck off?"

Eren laughs-- wheezes, morelike. His shift's blood is burning him from the inside out, Jean knows it. Hanji had warned him; as if there was anything he could do.

"Well, they do all say I am your weapon. I suppose that gives you the right to do with me as you please."

There were once entire fleets that fought less than Eren. Even out of shift, Eren had a bite to him that never ceased to amaze Jean, or the others. Those craving religion took it to be a sign of biblical deity, that Eren's loyal rage was fueled by omnipotence.

They thought him a God.

Now-- sitting here, in this cot that can barely hold the two of them, the rusted iron cuffs loose around his thin wrists-- he seems much more like a boy, even more than he had when they were young.

"You know I don't agree with that," Jean says, squeezing gently at Eren's hand. He gazes down at where they are joined, almost ashamed of looking Eren in the eye as he says, "But you will always be mine, in some way. And I will always regret asking you to stay."

Eren squeezes back, tightly; the strength of it startling Jean's eyes upward.

"I will never regret it."

 

\--

 

Jean never thought of them as enemies. They were only boys, thrust into the jaws of death at far too young an age. Both equally high strung, and as hardened as they were broken.

It all came to a point on the night they brought Armin's body back from outside the walls. It was a blessing in itself, Jean knew, to have any remnants of a person at all after their death. And Eren took to grief the way one who cannot swim might take to water.

Jean had come to Armin's room, only with the intention of a quiet goodbye, perhaps ensuring all of his things were spoken for. What he didn't expect was to see Eren sat on Armin's bed, his legs a tight knot beneath a sprawl of many, many books.

Eren held one of them limp in his lap as he looked up at Jean, cradling the spine as if it were Armin's body in his hold. His eyes were shuttered, pain staining the edges red, and he looked so utterly lost that Jean couldn't bring himself to leave him be.

"I can't even read them," Eren had said, his voice a hopeless rasp. Jean knew the cause-- he'd heard the screams himself.

"Why not?" Jean asked, stood before him now.

Eren only shrugged, and said, "I don't know how."

Jean's mouth tugged down at the corners. If ever he questioned what Armin brought to Eren's life-- this was it. Everything Eren know about the world outside of the walls were from these books, and Armin had read them to him.

"Go on, say something," Eren snarled, startling Jean with the sudden force of his voice. "I can see words itching at your throat, call me what you want."

Jean sighed, as though put upon by the tiring thought of insulting someone so stricken with grief. Eren knew better than that-- even if he felt like denying how they were with each other for the sake of self pity.

Instead he silently sat next to Eren on the bed, shoving aside the mess of books, and then elbowing Eren in the side-- hard enough to have him grunt in protest. From there he took the book from Eren's hands, opened it, and began to read.

Eren had looked at Jean like he had told him the sky was made of glass; like there was some other world above them that he couldn't even see. Jean prided himself on his focus and read without pause, even with Eren's stare burning brands on the side of his face.

When he'd finished, he put the book down, and Eren's eyes were so bright that it made him look almost frightened. Jean thought words outside of the pages that surrounded them weren't sufficient. He simply turned to Eren, pressed two fingers to his jaw to tilt his face, and kissed him.

It was as if he'd stolen the breath right from his lips.

"Mikasa will murder you," Eren had muttered.

"I don't think she will."

Eren was on him so quickly, it nearly toppled them both over. His mouth was warm, and it reminded Jean of his skin-- sweet, and touched by sun. They had the grace of fumbling boys, Jean’s foresight to guide them backwards causing Eren to yelp as the corner of a book dug into his back. Jean had told him to hush, kissed his chin-- and it was the first time he’d seen Eren smile since they returned.

 

\--

 

The hallways that lead to Eren's quarters are damp enough to make Jean's torch flicker, the thickness in the air a struggle to keep from smothering the flame. His boots smack into small puddles, the trail of the water staining the stone walls.

His quarters are more a prison than a room-- a cage, meant for a beast. His door is made of iron bars, and locks in several places. There are cuffs similar to the ones in the sick ward, bolted to the wall at his bed.

Jean enters the room as quietly as possible with the way the bars creak in protest when opened. There is a small flicker of candlelight on the far side of the bed, illuminating half of Eren's startled face, along with the pile of Armin's books he always keeps nearby. Jean's eyes flick, out of habit, towards the otherwise empty coat rack in the corner of the room. On it hangs a single scarf, and nothing more. They had stopped making uniforms for him to ruin years ago.

"You look like hell," Eren says, his mouth a crooked attempt at hiding a smile.

Jean grins, despite himself, and places the torch in the sconce at the corner wall before sitting on the sheeted edge of Eren's bed. He looks much the same as he had in the ward, sitting up this time against the wall, his back rigid with the taut pull of the bandage wrapped around his ribs. The bruises are still there beneath his eyes, though they've faded to a mottled yellow color now.

"I've brought something for you," Jean says.

Eren tips his head forward; as if to say _go on then_.

Jean opens his coat, and pulls a small battered tin flask. He sloshes the remains of the contraband around, the hollow _ting_ of liquid hitting thin metal echoing in the room. Jean isn't even sure what it is anymore, only that it's bartered between coats, and is some concoction of honey and fermented fruit; a mead, if ever they'd thought to give it a name.

Eren grins as bright as the early morning sun as he takes it from Jean's hand. For all Jean knows he shouldn't be doing this, it isn't for the threat of punishment. The drink strips his stomach lining, it only makes the pain worse once it returns. But Jean is weak to deny him anything, especially when he lights up the way he does.

"Water to my parched soul," Eren says, breathless after taking a few heaving gulps.

Now is where Jean might smack him upside the skull, call him an idiot for all he's worth-- but he can't bring himself to do it, not anymore.

To distract himself from watching Eren's slow dripping ruin, Jean leans over and picks up one of Armin's old books.

"Would you like me to read it to you?" he asks Eren, already halfway to opening the cover.

"Those are maps, Jean."

"Greater stories have been told with less."

Eren sighs, settles into the stiff mattress of his bed as best he can with his wounds. "Amaze me, go on. Storytelling another hidden talent of yours?"

Jean looks up from the pages of the book and says, "To go along with what, exactly?"

"Well," Eren begins, brightening, "Your knack for comforting others, your charm with women, your cautiously polite mouth--"

"Ah, yes, yes-- of course we can't ever forget my flaws," says Jean, turning his focus back to the book. Only his focus is pulled right back with Eren's soft but insistent grip on his hand.

"Tell me your story, then."

Jean parts the pages by memory, spreads flat and wide the map of the world hidden in the center. Their walls would be not much more than a speck at this scale-- a speck that Jean wouldn't even know where to place.

He speaks in a soft, gentle voice, one that aligns with the dimness of the light in the room. The story he tells is of a boy mistaken for a God, of a boy who lost his family and gained only a friend. The boy didn't want to leave this friend, but the friend insisted. They would treat him like a monster if he stayed, he warned him.

So, in this story, the boy left; equipped with a sack full of books on his back, and a scarf tied round his neck, he traveled out to the sea. He woke with the gulls and slept at every set of the sun. The world surrounded him in color and calm, and he was happy.

"Sounds like a crock of shit to me," Eren interrupts, and if it weren't for the slight furrow in his brow, Jean wouldn't know this from their usual quips and insults.

"Why?" Jean asks simply.

"You say he lost everything and gained only one, and then _leaves_? That isn't happiness, Jean, it's misery. I would be so fucking lonely without you," Eren says in a rush, his voice cracking on the very last syllable.

Jean closes the book, subconsciously marks the pages with his fingers and remembers their place. "My regrets are different than yours, then."

"Come here," Eren demands, an almost childish petulance to his tone.

Jean scoots closer, the tight pull of the bandages on Eren's ribs making the unbound parts of his chest white with choked blood flow. Eren looks to Jean, his eyes frowning more than his mouth, and like one inhales a breath, Jean takes Eren's face into his palms.

Eren's bones are thin, now-- brittle. Where once he was all sharp edges and harsh words, he is now soft and pained.

"What about the other boy?" Eren asks softly, his pulse humming against Jean's fingers. "The other boy who lost just as much, the other boy who fell in love with the same caliber of beast that murdered his mother--"

Jean quiets him with a kiss, the cavity of his chest aching at the way Eren whimpers like it hurts him.

But Eren has since learned to keep him from pulling away. His hands find Jean's forearms, pulling him down. Jean opens his mouth to Eren, tangles trembling fingers in the overgrown length of his hair.

"I miss you, all the time," Eren whispers against his mouth.

Jean kisses him again, slower this time, to quiet his nerves.

"We're all starting to lose small pieces of ourselves."

Eren pulls away, just enough to look him in the eye as he asks, "Do you regret us?"

"Never."

 

\--

 

There was passion in every glance. They both knew what it felt like to lose someone of grave importance-- it added an element of haste, blunt fingernails scraping the walls for more time.

Meetings in storage rooms, in library basements-- in stables, even. Quiet pockets of solitute where Jean learned the exact curve of Eren’s mouth, memorized his taste. There seemed to be an art to the way his body moved beneath Jean’s hand, working fingers and mouths around the leather straps of their uniforms. Once or twice they’d emerged with the other’s coat-- Jean’s running a little tight in the shoulders, while Eren’s sat too loose.

He was a beautiful boy, Jean remembers. The strike of pain that threaded his brows together, the way his mouth opened slack against Jean’s when he succumbed to their pleasure.

And after, always, Eren would use his thumbs to wipe the corners of Jean’s mouth.

“Am I that obvious?” Jean would ask with a lazy smirk.

On the days were Eren chose not to respond by sucking on the swell of his lower lip, he would say, “No, but reassurances are a bad habit. Sometimes I have to remind myself that you’re real.”

 

He’d stopped needing physical reminders as time progressed. Jean had hoped it was because he finally felt safe in what they were.

 

\--

 

Perhaps what Eren needed reminding of was that his body was his own. By the time they were societal adults, he seemed to feel his control was slipping, like sand through dry fingers. _A body is just a place to hold your soul_ , Jean had told him, once or twice. Though, Eren had argued that when he shifted it felt like his soul was suspended-- he wasn’t himself.

Jean had refused to believe this. Even on the day Mikasa’s death was announced by her short-knit crew, and there was nothing left of her body to return to them.

Having only been commander for barely a month, Jean was still fueled by emotion over duty. He stumbled down to Eren’s chamber, in time to catch him pulling at his iron restraints, the guards huddled against the opposite wall.

“Leave us,” Jean commanded, and they did.

Eren was stuck in some kind of cruel physical limbo-- caught halfway through transforming into his shift. His eyes were wild and strained, his jaw unhinged. He looked at Jean, and his expression made it seem as though he were frightened of himself.

There was recognition in his eyes-- he _knew_ Jean. He hadn’t even lunged when Jean lifted his hand, cradled the enlarged curve of his jaw. His entire body was trembling, vibrating muscle and nerves, and Jean would have kissed him to calm his heart if his lips hadn’t already begun to curl away from his teeth.

With a note of sorrowful admission, Jean was able to admit that this was the first, and possibly the last, time he would ever come close enough to touch Eren in his shift-- even if it were not complete. Hanji had always warned him that Eren was not himself in his other form. Perhaps at the time Jean was high off a new title, the badge on his breast still gleaming and without scuffs or the wear of time.

Jean had felt the loss of Mikasa like a limb, as she was his one ally that could stand by his side, at all times. She was also the only other person who wanted to protect Eren; and now this burden, along with so many others, fell heavily on his shoulders.

He would do it, regardless. If not for Eren himself, than for them-- the ones who died to protect him.

 

 

\--

 

 

By the time Jean passes on from life, Eren is numb.

He died a respectable age, they said, though Eren feels those words like a stab through the stomach.

The war is never ending. There are more than just shifters now-- people that tame titans like horses, camps of outlaws. Eren is seen as old and weak, which makes it all the easier to snap the iron chains that bind him to the wall. He had only ever complied for the sake of making Jean’s life easier.

He leaves his chamber at night when he pleases. His limbs are heavy, and he walks. Down through the passageway beneath the carved stone arch, down through the gardens and fountains, past the graveyard-- stopping only for a moment to consider that Jean’s body is beneath the large marble bird carved out in the center. They’d banned him from the funeral, claimed him a liability.

 

But there are things of tradition and fulfilling wishes. Jean might not have cared for Eren to attend a military funeral, but he would have wanted this much.

 

Eren throws a sheet over his shoulder one night, piles in Armin’s books like bricks, and ties them to his back. He wraps Mikasa’s scarf around his neck, pulls it up to cover his nose, and pretends that he can remember her scent.

He has nothing of Jean’s, for Jean had only himself to give.

And he walks. Beneath the castle gate, out past the walls. He laughs at the notion that Jean thought he would get as far as the ocean-- there are too many titan to let him roam that far.

There are few who recognize him, though only one that approaches-- the monster that gave himself to humanity is not a title that leads to casual conversation. A young boy asks him where he's headed, and though he smiles when he replies _"the ocean"_ , the boy cannot see it for the scarf.

It is only the blind bravery of youth that dare question where he's off to. There is a purpose to his steps, a reason to flee-- which he never before had.

And as he leaves his world behind, he thinks, _I have only ever known love. And for that I am grateful._

 


End file.
